Scarce
You withdraw from the names
that spin the silence of things
.
Alejandra Pizarnik
I
I
will tattoo a handful of birds all over my body to braid the cavities of his
memory and bite from time to time what's left of our fear.
II
I
surrender daily life, his periphery, my legs and voices, I let him think I
believe him; the opposite scares me. The habit of his streets is mine no
longer, I dream with giant insects clinging like scabs to his back, they bite
him, he moans, it seems I'm scratching him but I forgot how. Every now and then
I divert my eyes that I won't look at him, I'm hardly charmed by the precarious
borders of this house. I nail myself again to the passing drama of his body, then
run after the dampness he leaves after crawling through my hallways and become
ashes to soil his trace.
III
Sometimes
I love him so much that it bothers me.
IV
I
let him braid my hair to curve what I have in excess, this sorrow that falls
asleep like a full plain between his toes, letting him crawl while he's lost,
mute, lost and mute. I lack understanding him in his scarce body, watching as
he agonizes in the twinge of another absence – one that is not mine because I
tend to stagnate at his door like stale sawdust and to cover his holes with
dirty words.
V
I
run my fingers over the stamps to feel the jab of their corners, dirty and
dark, like the broken journey of his reflection. I'm the "girl-deer,"
mother of dead objects.
The original was taken from the Círculo de poesía blog. You can find other poems in Spanish by CM here.
Escasa
Te alejas de los nombres
que hilan el silencio de las cosas.
Alejandra Pizarnik
I
Voy
a tatuarme un puñado de pájaros por todo el cuerpo, para trenzar las cavidades
de su recuerdo y morder de vez en cuando lo que nos resta de miedo.
II
Cedo
la cotidianidad, su periferia, mis piernas y voces, dejo que piense que le
creo, lo contrario me asusta. La costumbre de sus calles ya no me pertenece,
sueño con insectos gigantes, aferrados como costras sobre su espalda, lo muerden,
se queja, parece que lo araño pero olvidé como hacerlo. De vez en cuando viro
la vista para no mirarlo, poco me seducen las fronteras inestables de ésta
casa. Me clavo nuevamente en el drama pasajero de su cuerpo, entonces corro
tras la humedad que deja después de arrastrarse por mis pasillos y me
transformo en ceniza para ensuciar su rastro.
III
A
veces lo quiero tanto que me molesta.
IV
Dejo
que me trence el pelo para curvar lo que me sobra, esa desdicha que como
llanura plena se duerme entre los dedos de sus pies, dejando que se arrastre
perdido, mudo, perdido y mudo. Me falta comprenderlo en su cuerpo escaso, mirar
mientras agoniza por la puntada de otra ausencia, una que no es la mía porque
suelo estancarme en su puerta como aserrín añejo y cubrir sus agujeros de
sucias palabras.
V
Recorro
las estampillas con los dedos para sentir el puntazo de sus esquinas, sucias y
oscuras, similares al recorrido roto de su reflejo. Soy la “niña ciervo”, madre
de objetos muertos.
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